


A Place Worth Searching For

by stepOnMeZenos



Series: The one where Zenos loses his memories [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ala Mhigan Resistance (Final Fantasy XIV), Amnesiac Zenos yae Galvus, Gen, More Blatant Sequel Bait The Author Currently Has No Plans to Continue, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, The Sequel The Author Didn't Plan On Writing, Zenos yae Galvus POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepOnMeZenos/pseuds/stepOnMeZenos
Summary: In which Zenos accidentally joins the Ala Mhigan Resistance.
Relationships: Gaius van Baelsar & Zenos yae Galvus
Series: The one where Zenos loses his memories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565788
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	A Place Worth Searching For

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't lying. I really didn't plan on ever continuing the first one.

Crashing one's airship into a mountain, Zenos decides as he cuts his way out of the cockpit past the voluminous airbags that squished him into the pilot's chair, is an unpleasant experience.

The airship's main engine began stuttering as he crossed an area he recognised as the Ghimlyt Dark, though he cannot tell if he has been there before. After bullying his way past the patrols by making liberal use of threats, the ship rapidly lost altitude close to the border of what he thinks is Gyr Abania, which is under Imperial control, regrettably. 

'Twas fortunate, then, that the vessel he had taken was outfitted with airbags so extensively, otherwise crashlanding in a rocky valley would have likely injured him to the point of not being able to leave on his own accord. Waiting for imperial soldiers to come pick him up is something he has no desire of doing. 

The final layer of airbag falls to pieces before him. The sliding door separating the cockpit from the rest of the vessel does not open automatically the way it should, but prying it open is no issue. An acrid smell fills the cabin beyond it, a smell he knows comes from ceruleum getting where it does not belong. The engine is likely beyond saving, then. He does not have the tools to repair anything, nor to even handle refined ceruleum safely. He will have to leave the airship behind and continue on foot.

Before exiting the vessel, however, he rummages through the cabin for anything useful to take along. The crash landing has thrown the interior into disarray; latches have opened, the content behind spilling everywhere, and parts of the furniture have come off their designated places. What a mess. Still, within a compartment that remained intact, he finds a flask of water and some travel rations, along with a leather pouch about the size of his fist. He weighs it in his hand; it's light, and filled with small solid objects that shift under his touch. 

A crackling sound coming from the engine room interrupts his train of thought. It's time to leave. Who knows how a ceruleum engine having sustained unidentified damage will behave? Explosions are not out of the question. He needs to get out of the ship now.

He grabs both the provisions and the odd bag and hurries towards the door. It, too, is stuck, but a solid kick dislodges it easily, and he squeezes through the bent doorframe out into the open

The sweltering heat immediately makes him recoil. It's as if he's stepped into a furnace. Of course. Gyr Abania is a desert nation. This isn't… this isn't the place he wanted to find, then. He does not wish to live here.

Already, sweat wells up on his forehead. He hastens over to a nearby rock formation and sits down in its shadow, then takes a deep gulp from his water bottle, letting the stale taste fill his mouth. 

He can't stay here. There is naught to nourish him in this place, and what few supplies he found will not last him long. He will run out of water in a day, perhaps two if he does not expose himself to the sun and rations it. Where to go from here, then? The mountain he has crashlanded in are part of Abalathia's Spine, or so he believes. The nation of Ishgard also claims lands in these mountains, if his nonexistent memory serves, but that would require travelling _through_ the mountains and he isn't equipped for that. 

On the other end of Gyr Abania lies… Gridania, a nation he knows little and less about. But he knows that the climate closer to the center of Eorzea is more temperate than this. Besides, those lands aren't under Garlean occupation. That settles it, then. He will travel westwards and cross the border. His provisions won't last long enough, but he can steal more on the way, or perhaps hunt for food if he has to.

As he waits for the sun to set, he opens the bag he retrieved from the compartment. It's filled with crystal shards, glittering in a brilliant purple. Lightning; he knows that means they are lightning-aspected. Odd. They aren't needed to run an airship, nor to operate any Garlean weaponry, nor are Garleans capable of making use of them. Why were they there?

Solus. He must have put them there. But for what purpose?

He withdraws a single shard from the bag and holds it between two fingers. That feels… familiar, somehow, a strange sense of déja-vu. He has held crystals like this before, even if he does not know to what end.

As he turns the shard over to inspect it further, he notices a scar in the middle of his palm. It's not a big scar, but the tissue stands out from the rest of his skin. It has the look of a wound that has healed and been reopened many times. What could have caused such an injury? A battle injury this is not… but he can think about that at a later time. The sun is sinking beneath the horizon. It's time to go. He has much ground to cover before he reaches his destination.

Another night, another pointless patrol. 

Secunda sighs. Why van Baelsar insists on sending troops to the area near the Ghimlyt border, she will never understand. There's nothing here, and no reason for anyone to _come_ out here either. It's all just a dry wasteland. All one can find in this area are the occasional dead bushes and rocks. Rocks and more rocks. And cracked ground. The Gyr Abanian dry weather meets with the perpetual darkness that shrouds the Ghimlyt Dark here; it isn't completely dark in this area the way it is just a few malms to the north, but it nonetheless inhibits plant growth. 

It is, in short, a desolate, dreary place. Why is it always her who ends up being sent here?

At least she lucked out with having been assigned the magitek predator. The only thing worse than listening to it stomp over dry cracked ground is treading the selfsame ground on her own feet.

It was the only sound penetrating the darkness—metal hitting ground in a rhythmic pattern. One might almost fall asleep to it, if it weren't for the swaying motion and the fact that she would get demoted for it, or worse, dishonorably discharged. 

“'ey, Secunda,“ Skarnwyda calls up to her. The Roegadyn woman hails from another province and was transferred to Ala Mhigo along with most of the XIVth legion. For a savage, she isn't so bad, although she really ought to get rid of that abominable accent of hers. It took Secunda a considerable amount of effort to learn to understand it.

“What is it?“

“D'you think the rumours about the prince having run off are true?“

Secunda scoffs. “You should know better than to listen to that drivel. Of course they aren't true. What cause would Lord Zenos have to forsake his position? Nay, balderdash. Baseless gossip.“

“Are you sure?“ Skarnwyda asks. “I mean, they've also been saying he's not quite right in the head anymore, so that would explain it...“

“ _What?_ “ Such disrespect! One does not speak of the Imperial Family in that manner—for one's own safety, at the very least. People have disappeared from the capital for far lesser slights. 

“Aye, they say he's hit his head or something. Some accident he was involved in. Left him befuddled, by all accounts.“ Skarnwyda shrugs. “I know as much as you do. Less, I'd say, never having been to the capital and all.“ 

“Yes, and as the person with far more experience in these matters, I order you to keep quiet. I don't need you disappearing too.“

They continue on in silence after that. Skarnwyda has to take a brisk pace to keep up with the predator, even though Secunda has it walking at the slowest possible speed. There's probably a reason why they assign only Roegadyn and Elezen to that particular role. The shorter savage races wouldn't stand a chance at keeping up for long.

Secunda scans the area around herself. There's nothing, of course; there never is, but it's her duty to make sure. A patrol that doesn't pay attention is beyond useless, and she won't have people say that of her. 

Her radio crackles to life, breaking the silence. Setting up radio towers had been one of van Baelsar's first orders. How could one rule a province without proper communication channels?

“Ghimlyt border patrol, do you copy?“

“We copy,“ Secunda answers loudly and clearly. 

“Change of mission parameters. You are to continue with your planned route, but in addition to looking out for subversive elements, you will keep an eye out for a Garlean fugitive. Sightings are to be reported immediately; afterwards, engage and attempt to apprehend him. Understood?“

Secunda shares a look with Skarnwyda, whose face bears a shite-eating grin. Apparently another lesson on staying in one's proper place is in order, if she's still thinking of defaming Lord Zenos. “Understood. Description?“

“Long blonde hair, blue eyes, the spitting image of a perfect Garlean. Likely carrying a gunblade and travelling on foot.“

That… well, Lord Zenos does have long blonde hair and blue eyes and certainly is the spitting image of a perfect Garlean, from the pictures Secunda has seen, but that's clearly just a coincidence. He's far from the only blonde and blue-eyed Garlean man out there, after all. Secunda's own brother fits that description, though _obviously_ he could never hold a candle to Lord Zenos.

“Subject may be found in the vicinity of a crashed airship. If you see such a thing, report that as well.“

“Understood. We will keep an eye out.“

The radio goes silent once more, and Skarnwyda, who's clearly been waiting for her chance to speak, takes a deep breath. “So the rumours were right! The prince's gone mad and made a run for it!“

“Shut your mouth, you. Even _if_ that's true, if the wrong person hears you say that, they'll spread stories about _you_ having deserted while your body rots somewhere in a shallow grave—and who would keep me company during boring patrols, then, hm?“ Secunda sighs when the excited look on Skarnwyda's face doesn't fade in the slightest. Bless her heart, but she is just too naive sometimes. One would think living in the Empire for as long as she has would teach her better, but she's still treating her betters as… characters in a story, perhaps; certainly not as the potentially deadly force that she should always be wary of. 

“But aren't you curious?“ Skarnwyda asks. “Last I heard he was in Doma, fighting the resistance, and then word was he was called away on some unknown business… I wonder what happened!“

“How often have I told you not to meddle in their affairs now? If not for your own sake then for mine. It wouldn't reflect well on me if you were prosecuted on treason charges either.“

“Yes, but...“

“No buts! If Lord Gaius orders us for a blonde Garlean runaway, we do as he says and don't ask questions. Are we clear on that?“ Secunda eyes Skarnwyda. Is she getting through to her? “Look, you can be curious, I'm not even saying that's a bad thing, and _I_ won't be the one ratting you out to the wrong person. But I also don't want to hear any of it, in case anyone else does.“

“Aww… fine then,“ Skarnwyda sighs. “That's boring, but if you think it's best.“

“Yes, it's objectively best. Now come on, we need to finish our route before daybreak.“

The monotony of the desert is every bit as bad as that of Garlemald's snowy wastes, only in a different colour. At least the temperatures are more tolerable during nighttime, but it doesn't make the situation any more enjoyable. Zenos doesn't want to be here. Of course, he doesn't know where he wants to be either, other than 'not here', which isn't very helpful.

The dusty ground crunches under Zenos' boots as he makes his way west. The finer points of Gyr Abanian geography are unfamiliar to him; heading straight west seems like the best option, barring any further discoveries. Any obstacles he can simply react to as they occur.

If only it weren't so dreadfully, agonisingly, soul-crushingly _boring_. About the most exciting thing that happened since crashlanding was encountering an autonomous magitek turret that had apparently gone rogue, and to call that exciting would be naught but a farce. A simple slash was all it took to fell it. 

He stops and unscrews his flask. It's running low. He will have to find more water soon, but there have been no settlements yet, nor any other water sources he could have perused. How pointless of a death that would be, having escaped from Garlemald and his father the emperor only to find his end here by himself, of _thirst_ out of all things. 'Tis an ending unbefitting of him. 

He does not want to meet _any_ ending ere he can find whatever it is he is looking for, but that one would be especially ignominious.

Clanking in the distance. The sound of a grounded magitek unit. Manned, likely; it must be quite heavy by the sound of its movement, and units of that weight class are unlikely to be sent out here fully autonomously. How very convenient, that. Taking down even the largest of magitek units has never been an issue for him. Perhaps it's foolish to be so certain of that, as he can't actually remember battling one, but he knows it to be true. All he has to do is to take a crystal and…

What?

He can't finish the thought. There's something with crystals that he needs to do, but the memory isn't there anymore. How aggravating, to be so close to the solution without seeing it.

He fishes the sack of crystal shards out of his backback and lays one of them out on his palm. It glints even in the dark, its purple glow illuminating his hand.

What is it he used to use them for? Why did his supposed great-grandfather put them in the airship cabinet? And what exactly is this scar? He's tried puzzling it out to no avail, but now, the circumstances give him an idea.

He jams the crystal into the scar, opening the wound again. What's the worst that could happen?

Something like lightning courses through his body, an electric current strong enough to make his back arch as his muscles tense painfully. As quickly as it started it recedes again. A crackling charge thrumming in his bones remains in its wake. 

Somehow, this is a familiar feeling. Apparently he's made a habit out of this, for some reason. Why? He doesn't know. Doesn't really care, either. If his former self thought it was a good idea, he'll simply trust that man and go with it. The battle, perhaps, will reveal what exactly sticking crystals into his own body is good for. 

“...and then, when I opened the case, it turned out the dolt had simply forgotten to _put the parts back in._.“ Skarnwyda laughs. “Can you believe that?“

Secunda snorts. “Oh, I can. I once worked with this engineer who neglected to put the core back into the magitek reaper they were working on, and couldn't figure out for _days_ why it didn't function until they called in reinforcements who took one look at it, and picked up the unused core where it lay on the workbench nearby.“

“Really! It's a miracle this army functions at all.“ 

“Are you—“ Secunda stops and squints. There's someone in the distance. It's hard to make out, dark as it is, but they seem to be moving towards them. 

“Do you think that's him? Is that him?“ Skarnwyda's voice is giddy. Entirely too much so, given the circumstances.

The stranger is approaching them openly. Surely they don't mean to pick a fight? Nobody is stupid enough to face a magitek reaper all by themselves. The crown prince (who this person is certainly not) is said to be possessed of monstrous strength, but he is still just one man. Even he doesnt— _wouldn't_ stand a chance. 

She reached out to the radio. “Mission control? We have encountered a stranger...“

It seems they noticed his approach. That's fine, too. They stopped moving in response, which spares him the trouble of catching up with a moving target. 

Across the cracks and past something that looks like it might have been a riverbed once, and he begins to make out details. One mans the magitek reaper, the other's on foot. A standard patrol sent to areas that are unlikely to harbour hostiles (another thing he knows yet does not recall learning). How very unfortunate for them, then, that the emperor has managed to turn _him_ into a hostile.

“Identify yourself!“ the one in the reaper calls out as he comes into hearing range.

He doesn't answer. They have no use for a response.

“Did you hear me? Identify yourself!“ Her voice wavers. Pathetic. No wonder they sent her out here, where her weakness wouldn't matter as much. 

“Stay where you are! We are authorised to fire!“

Then what are they waiting for? Battles aren't won by making empty threats…

“Last warning!“

He draws his gunblade. The handle fits into his palm without rubbing against the crystal embedded into it. Apparently the placements is well thought-out. Then, perhaps because of some fragment of memory he can't quite grasp, he swings his sword though there is naught in front of him but thin air.

Something like a sickle of energy bursts free from the sword's edge and cleaves right through the reaper's rider, cutting her head and part of her shoulder clean off. Her now beheaded torse sinks against the control board, while her disembodied head lands directly in front of her companion's feet.

Interesting. 

The other soldier doesn't even try to run before he reaches her and stabs her in the chest. As she breathes her final sputtering breath, her incessant shrieking finally having been shut up, he looks down at her writhing body. What a complete failure of an imperial conscript. Neither she nor the rider are worth the uniforms they wear. 'Tis no wonder Garlemald has yet been unable to conquer Eorzea if that is the best they have to offer. 

He wipes his sword clean on the fallen woman's clothes, the reaches up and pulls the other one's remains out of the reaper. This will speed his travel time up. It will also make him easier to discover, but what does he care? He can cut down anyone in his path.

He tries climbing into the seat. Instead, his legs buckle under him and he finds himself sitting on the ground, with the world spinning around him. The lightning pulsing within him swells abruptly to the point where dark spots flicker in front of his eyes. With a shaking hand that doesn't want to obey him, he pulls the crystal out and then slumps over. His heart races. Sweat trickles down his face, despite the cold desert night. 

It takes a long time for the shaking to subside. 

Has his former self really done this on the regular, enough for so much scar tissue to form? It beggars belief. He must have done it wrong, somehow; the power he found is certainly desirable, but if it nearly renders him unconscious upon use, its use is far too limited. Mayhap the scar in his hand is from early experiments, not from the final process.

Figuring that out, however, will have to wait until later; much later, perhaps. These dizzy spells in hostile territory won't do. This one hasn't lasted very long—he's already starting to feel better—but there's no way to know whether it was an outlier or not. The next one could put him out of commission for hours, or even days.

Finally, once he feels steady enough on his legs again, he swings himself up into the driver's seat. It's wet with blood from the corpse, but that will dry soon enough. A quick look through the compartments reveals provisions meant for two, enough to last him for a while. Another problem solved.

He turns the reaper westwards and resumes his journey.

“Is the path clear?“ J'olhmyn whispers to her second in command, who nods and whispers back: “No surprise patrols today, and the devils we're to ambush are moving as expected. Let's get into position.“ 

She motions towards her troop, and they move out of the rock formation they've been hiding behind, staying low to the ground so as to not be seen by anyone below the cliff. It won't do to alert the imperial bastards that anything's afoot—not before raining death down on them, at least.

Today won't be the big blow to the Black Wolf that they're hungering for, but it will be _something_. The only good imperial is a dead imperial, after all. 

J'olhmyn looks at the alchemist who's tasked with setting up the explosives. He nods, a grim smile on his face. Good. They're all set then. As soon as the imperials come around, they'll see what occupying Gyr Abania would get them. Oh, to see the look on their faces as they shout panicked warnings to each other—

—they are already shouting, even though they haven't even come close to the trap. Frantic voices coming from behind the bend, in the Garleans' own tongue. What's happening?

She and her troops move along the cliffside until they can see the imperial patrol. Carnage greets them. Dismembered bodies surrounding a sparking magitek reaper lying on its side, and in the middle: one man holding a sword, standing tall amidst the blood and offal. 

That one man took down the entire patrol by himself…? Her companions' mouths were agape, as is her own. 

Then the stranger sways, drops his sword and falls backwards. He does not get up again.

“Commander… what just happened?“

“Beats me, friend. Beats me.“ J'olhmyn scratches her head. “I say we take him with us—not to Rhalgr's Reach, but somewhere safe where he won't be taken out by another patrol. There we can wait for him to wake up, so we can figure out who he is and how he did… that.“

“Are you sure this is wise?“ the alchemist asks. “If he really took all of those imperials out by himself, I doubt we could stop him if he tries anything.“

“So what are we to do then? Leave him here to die, even though he could be a valuable ally? As far as I'm concerned, anyone willing to kill imperials is worth saving. Come on, before any more scum shows up.“ 

None of the others voice any objections, although they also don't look happy about it. Whatever. It's not like J'olhmyn likes this any better—it's nice she didn't have to endanger her soldiers' lives, but she too gets antsy about surprises like this. Things not going as expected is almost never good news in their business.

It's a detour to get down from the cliffs, since they don't have the equipment to rappel down. Fortunately, the local wildlife hasn't descended upon the carnage to feast yet by the time they arrive, but it won't take much longer now. The bodies have already begun to stink in the Gyr Abanian afternoon heat.

The stranger hasn't stirred, nor does he open his eyes as they approach—that is, the two eyes located where eyes should be. The third eye is wide open, as all Garlean third eyes always are.

“Change of plan,“ J'olhmyn says. “We're tying him up before we take him anywhere.“

Zenos wakes up to a pounding headache and lingering nausea, as well as the sight of his own legs and the ground beneath them through his third eye. Those are the first things he notices. Immediately afterwards, the straining ache in his back pushes to the forefront of his mind, and then finally, after he tries to roll his shoulders to combat the pain, he realises that his hands are tied behind his back, and that he's slumped over in a most uncomfortable position. 

There _has_ to be a better way of making use of these crystals. It's inconceivable that his former self accepted collapsing after every battle. 

With a groan, he raises his head. He appears to be in a sparse forest growing on the same cracked soil that can be found all over Gyr Abania. The ties holding his hands together feel metallic, and seem to be slung around a tree. Furthermore, he's surrounded by people wearing yellow hoods and coats, one of whom happens to turn around to him at that very moment. Her eyes widen and she shushes her companions. She's a Miqo'te woman, and not worth paying attention to if looks are aught to go by, a trait shared by the rest of her posse: a gaggle of people from various races and professions. 

After a moment of awkward silence, she speaks up. “Finally decided to wake up again, eh, after the racket you made back there? How about you tell us who you are, and what exactly you were doing that ended with you singlehandedly killing an imperial patrol?“

The tree he's tied to feels springy. Pulling at his bonds a little makes it bend. It's not very old, then. He can uproot it and untangle the chains from it…

“Oi, I'm talking to you.“

...and these few people will prove no challenge whatsoever. They won't be able to keep him from his gunblade, which lies but a few yalm away. Then again, he probably doesn't even need it to take them down.

“Hey!“

“I am not hard of hearing,“ Zenos says. “Save your shouts for someone who will care about them.“

The Miqo'te pursed her lips. “If you can hear me, you can answer me.“ 

“I have no answers to give you. Untie me now, or I shall do it myself...“ Under other circumstancs, he wouldn't have given them an advance warning. Right now, however, he quite simply doesn't feel like slaughtering weaklings. A hint of wooziness remains from the crystal ravaging his body, and he would frankly rather sit in the shade for a while until it dissipates.

“Oh, please, those are mythrite shackles, you can't—“

Zenos jerks forward and pulls at the tree. The Gyr Abanian heat has baked the soil into a hard crust, but it gives way to his strength with a crunch, letting the tree's roots go free. 

The Miqo'te's eyes widen and she leaps to her feet. “H-hold on a second. This doesn't have to end in fighting, you know.“

“Mayhap I could have been convinced to spare you,“ Zenos says as he yanks at his chain to get it off the uprooted tree. “I am less inclined to do so now.“

“I've got the keys here—“

“J'olhmyn, what are you _doing_?“

“Saving our lives, moron!“ She tosses a keychain his way. It lands in the dirt in front of him. 

“Go on,“ Zenos says. “I could certainly shuffle my way over to use it myself, but I can't say I'm especially keen on it. Unlock them for me.“ 

Oh, she doesn't look happy about that order at all, but she is, thankfully, smart enough not to refuse. Her shoulders are hunched and he can feel her hands shaking as she pushes the key into the manacles. Pitiful at best, but at least she didn't soil herself. 

The manacles clattered to the ground. Zenos rose to his full height as he rubbed his chafed wrist. “Trying to win my goodwill by reversing course was a smart choice. I shall be merciful just this once… provided you answer a few questions.“

There is an unmistakably sour look on the Miqo'te's face. It rather reminds him of how the emperor looked at him. Instead of biting back, however, she sits down in the dirt and motions for her companions to do the same. “Not that I'm happy about how this situation reversed on us, but go on, ask us if you must.“ 

“Where am I, and which direction lies Gridania?“

“Not far from where you faceplanted in the dirt. Gridania's to the west, but you won't have much success crossing Baelsar's Wall. Nobody gets past that.“

“Nobody aside from those who know secret passageways, is that it? You need not lie. I have no intention of sneaking about when I can simply walk through the front doors.“ To the west, hm? Handily enough, the sun is rapidly approaching the horizon. It won't be hard to find.

“Are you _insane_ , man?“ one of the Miqote's companions says from behind her. “Have you _seen_ Baelsar's Wall?“

“No,“ Zenos says.“ Or perhaps more accurately, I do not remember seeing it, if I ever have. However, I know much and more about imperial construction work. It will not prove an insurmountable obstacle.“ 

“Who in the bloody hells are you?“ the Miqo'te asks. Her tail is swishing behind her. “You're a godsdamned Garlean, but you fight the godsdamned imperials. You talk like you just walked out of Garlemald's capital, but your Eorzean is flawless.“

(Is it? He hasn't even noticed switching languages…)

"And how in the hells did you even manage to take down that patrol?“

By making use of a massively flawed method of enhancing his abilities beyond his natural limits, but he doesn't intend on laying that bare for anyone, least of all before finding the secret to not passing out afterwards.

“Not going to answer? Well, I suppose I'll show my hand freely then." The Miqo'te holds out a hand. "What can we do to persuade you to join our cause?“

Immediately, the Miqo'te's companions start yelling at her. The commotion makes it hard to hear what exactly they are saying, and Zenos doesn't bother even trying. What the rabble thinks is of no importance, after all. 

“Your cause?“ he asks. “The… resistance, is it?“

The Miqo'te nods.

“I have no interest in throwing my weight behind lost causes.“ Zenos makes his way over to his gunblade and picks it up. “You will not win this fight, and I have no reason to do it for you. Give up, and perhaps your masters will let you live in shame a little longer. Or don't. 'Tis all the same to m—“

“Attack!“

A group of imperial soldiers charges into the clearing and then promptly freezes as soon as they lay eyes on him. 

“I tire of your meddling,“ Zenos says to the tune of resistance fighters scrambling into fighting position. Their form was atrocious. “Tell van Baelsar to stop sending troops after me and I will make this painless for you.“

The group's leader merely stutters something incomprehensible, though Zenos can just barely make out that he is being adressed as 'Lord Zenos' again. Pathetic. Have the standards of the imperial army fallen that far, or has losing his memories make him expect more? With a sigh, he raises his sword. There's no need to use a crystal on these people, weak as they are. 

He cuts down the first in a blink of an eye. The second and third hardly last any longer. The fourth he catches in the throat; blood sprays all over his face and torso. The fifth makes a valiant effort and manages to dodge a blow or two, and the sixth… crouches on the ground and is shouting something about Lord Zenos having joined the resistance into a portable radio, until Zenos pushes the sword into his back and out of his chest.

All in all, it took less than a minute. 

Silence settles over the clearing as Zenos wipes the blood off the gunblade. The red smears drying on his clothes and face he leaves. He can wash up later. 

“Mate,“ the Miqo'te finally says. “You have got to join us. I'll have to talk to my superiors, but you can name your price now. What is it you want? Whatever it is, we'll do everything in our power to get it if you agree to fight for us.“

“There is nothing you have that I want, nor do I wish to stay in this dusty desert any longer than necessary.“ Zenos sheathes the sword and turns away. No need to stay in the company of these people any longer now that he knows where Baelsar's Wall is.

The radio crackles back to life. “Zenos. A word, if you would.“

The lack of honorifics accompanying his name suggests familiarity, but hearing the voice does not shake loose any hidden memories. Zenos doesn't have any idea who's speaking. He stops anyway. If nothing else, he might learn something useful from the exchange.

“I have been made aware of your… circumstances,“ the stranger continues after a moment. “Nevertheless, I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.“

“Must you bother me with that drivel as well? You have naught I am interested in… van Baelsar.“ It's a guess, though a plausible one. Whoever this is, they have spoken before, it seems, and van Baelsar is the most likely candidate for that.

“You understand, of course, that I cannot simply leave matters as they are. I have orders to return you to the capital no matter the cost.“ The radio static distorts his voice and makes it hard to tell, but Zenos thinks he might be grinding his teeth a little. “Leaving Gyr Abania will make no difference. If I must expend my forces stationed in the rest of Aldenard, I will.“

“Then keep sending your soldiers to die, if you are so inclined. I care little and less.“ This exchange will get him nowhere. He slashes downwards. The radio falls apart into two pieces. 

Such bother. Does he not see that it's pointless to try to bring him back like this? Van Baelsar can't force him, and there is naught back in Garlemald he would return for.

Then again, he doesn't know what he even wants to find. So far, he hasn't found aught worth staying for here either; things are as loathsome in Gyr Abania as they were in Garlemald, and with more disagreeable weather to boot. 

“At the risk of getting on your nerves and incurring the consequences...“ The Miqo'te's boots scrape across the ground as she walks towards him. “You want them to leave you alone—and I won't ask what your story is, it's clear you won't tell us anyroad—and we want them gone from our home. Why don't we strike a deal? Help us drive them out of our lands and in return we'll guarantee you can live here undisturbed. Be a hermit, if you want to.“

“You are still trying, knowing that if you displease me, you'll meet the same end as those lowlives?“

“We risk our lives doing what we do,“ she says. “Each time we move against the imperials, we do it knowing that we're dead if me mess up. What's another potentially life threatening situation if the chance to make a real difference is there?“

Zenos turns around to her. She's looking straight at him and doesn't flinch when he scrutinises her, nor does she budge from where she stands, even though she's visibly trembling. 

“Is it courage that drives you,“ he muses, “or is it recklessness?“

“Where's the difference?“

“I would hear more about your motives,“ Zenos says. He hasn't met anyone quite like this since first waking up in the hospital room. Lowly servants and patrols flinch as soon as he turns his gaze towards them. His father displayed naught but resentment towards him, and his great-grandfather was an enigma. This Miqo'te, on the other hand… she doesn't hate him. She fears him, aye, he can see it in the way she crosses her arms, fingers digging into her skin, and in the tremor in her voice when she addresses him. In this, she is much like the servants, and yet she does not cower like they did. Nor did they dare to make demands of him like she is doing now. 

“I— _we_ —want to live free, with our countrymen in our home country. Surely you can understand that?“

Does he understand? He considers the question for a moment. He didn't enjoy living in Garlemald for the short time he spent there, locked up and bored. Loathsome as Gyr Abania is, being able to roam freely is much preferable to that still. But why fight to make things better in Garlemald if he can just leave instead? The notion of staying and improving his situation hasn't even occurred to him before now. Would his former self have made the same choice? By all accounts, he was loyal to the empire up until the accident. Perhaps the person he used to be held attachments to Garlemald he is now missing…

“I do not care for your cause,“ he finally says. “Even should I decide to move against the empire, I have no need for the likes of you. Leave now. I tire of your company.“

The Miqo'te's ears droop. “Well… I suppose that's that, then. Thanks for not killing us while you were at it and all. Come on, folks, let's leave him to it.“ 

Once they are gone, he settles down against a tree, next to one of the imperial corpses drenching the ground with its blood, and closes his eyes. So van Baelsar won't leave him alone. Perhaps it was naive to have hoped he would. Of course they wouldn't let someone in line for the imperial throne wander freely. Why couldn't he have been born a commoner? Someone whose life nobody pays any attention to, and who is free to do whatever he pleases?

But there's no point in wishing for what can never be.

There will likely be less interference from van Baelsar if he makes his way to Gridania and beyond, as he can't move his troops freely there. If he's been given orders to apprehend him though…

...well, then what? Van Baelsar said he would use his troops even beyond Gyr Abania, but Zenos doesn't know the man. Perhaps he was just bluffing. Perhaps if it costs him dearly enough, he'll stop trying to capture him. And where better to teach him a lesson than in the very province he governs?

And to start, Zenos will raid Baelsar's Wall. It'll double as scouting out a way to cross it, if he does decide to leave Gyr Abania for good. 

“Lord Gaius!“ The soldier standing in front of the map table salutes, then stands to attention. “I come with a report from Baelsar's Wall. 

Gaius looks up from the maps. “Speak.“

“A lone individual has struck the fortress from the Gyr Abanian side, advancing far into its interior before abruptly withdrawing again, leaving many casualties in his wake. The insurgents were suspected to be responsible at first, but upon reviewing the security camera footage...“

Gaius closes his eyes. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it one bit. 

With a wavering voice the soldier continues, “It was determined that the invidual was none other than Lord Zenos himself.“

Of course. Of _course_ it was Zenos. Out of all the wrenches fate could have thrown into his cog, why did it have to be Zenos? What did he do to deserve having to deal with Varis' spoiled son gone rogue? Gaius rubs his forehead. Signalling weakness to a subordinate is perhaps unwise, but he can't help it. This situation is too much of a headache, literally and figuratively.

“Did he leave any messages? Did he do anything that would clue us in about his reasons for attacking the fortress?“

“Not so far as we noticed, Sir. He did not, to our knowledge, steal anything, nor did he go after the commanding officers. We could not ascertain any particular goal he might have had.“ 

“I see. You are dismissed. Report back to your commanding officer for further orders.“ Gaius waits until the soldier has left the map room, then slumps back in his seat and massages his temples. What is he to do with Zenos? It's easy for Varis to order him to bring him back, but how is he supposed to do it? Zenos will simply squash any pursuers, a fact both he and Varis know very well. Trickery won't work either. Zenos is too smart to fall for it. And he's made it more than clear that he won't be bribed back to Garlemald. 

Gaius rises from his seat and walks over to the balcony. From up here, he can see the Lochs in their entirety, all the way to the mountain range that separates them from the Peaks. The evening sun reflects off the lakes. It bothers many of his soldiers; they complain about being blinded whenever they are on duty during these hours, but Gaius is well accustomed to such conditions. He's long since learned how to deal with snow blindness. He can deal with this as well.

Did Zenos cross these lakes? They lost track of his whereabouts after the first patrol he ran into, up until he reappeared near Baelsar's Wall. There's no saying which path he took to reach the westernmost parts of Gyr Abania. 

Gaius can't openly disobey Varis' orders. An earnest effort to apprehend Zenos has to be made. However, perhaps he could simply… fail at it. Perhaps his soldiers would simply not be very good at finding Zenos. It's plausible, is it not? Zenos is terrifyingly smart. It won't be an issue for him to elude his trackers. In turn, perhaps he will leave Gaius and his troops alone as well.

Yes, that is worth a try. It might invite snide comments about his competency, but that's fine. It won't be the first time. He can deal with it.

Thus heartened, he goes back inside, but leaves the balcony door open to catch the breeze. The piles of paper stacked on his desk won't get themselves done, and any relief from the stuffy desert heat is welcome.

It's a routine day at the castellum, until it isn't anymore.

Eauvraut lounges on top of the castellum wall, occasionally glancing over the surroundings to make sure no insurgents are approaching. Phaw. As if they ever will. There hasn't been an attack on this castellum in ages—and why would there be one now? There isn't anything out here. It's by far the least important castellum in Gyr Abania. Which is exactly how Eauvraut likes it.

Unfortunately, appearances have to kept up, in case there's an inspection, and today he drew the short stick, and so he's up on the wall now, marinating in his own sweat. At least it's more bearable now than it used to be, ever since they had the genius idea of putting up makeshift sun shades. It's against regulations, and it does make it more difficult to survey the entire landscape, but they just take them down whenever any officials come down here and put them back up later. Easy. Who in their right mind orders soldiers to stand guard in this infernal sun anyroad?

Is it lunch time soon? Hopefully it's lunch time soon. He casts a longing glance down at the barracks, where N'sevoh is undoubtedly cooking something that will at least be edible. That'll be—

The castellum wall explodes. Chunks of metal pelt him as he flies through the air and crashes to the ground in the inner courtyard. For a moment, he can't breathe. He heaves, but his chest won't lift. Black dots start dancing in his vision. He claws at his throat until a wet cough wracks his body and allows him to suck in some air.

With tears in his eyes, he looks up and sees carnage. 

A single man leisurely strolls through the castellum and murders everyone in his path. He beheads an armored soldier, stabs the communications officer in the chest, crushes the new recruit underfoot… then N'sevoh makes a run for the front gates. The stranger's sword glints in the sunlight as he swings it and N'sevoh falls to the ground, body cleaved in half. 

No. No! This can't be happening. This castellum is in the backwater end of Gyr Abania. Nobody is supposed to care about it!

Eauvraut tries to get to his feet, but lands face first in the dirt again. His body won't move like it should. This isn't how he wants to die. He rejoiced when he was deployed to this place—thinking he would get to live a quiet easy life here, and then retire comfortably as a citizen. This isn't fair. It's not fair!

The stranger now walks towards him. Eauvraut squeezes his eyes shut and awaits the final blow. Will it hurt? Will it be over quickly?

But nothing happens. No pain, no blade tearing through his insides. Instead, there's a thud. He opens his eyes. The backup radio sits in the dirt in front of him. It's scratched up, has been since some drunk soldier threw it across the barracks, but it still works.

“I trust you know how to operate this. Call your master and tell him I have a message for him.“ The stranger looms over him, staring down with cruel, merciless eyes. Three of them. That man's a Garlean. What the hells? A defector?

“My—my master?“

“Van Baelsar. Call him.“

Call the legatus? Why? Why attack an insignificant outpost just get at the backup radio? What is going on?

The stranger directs a withering glare at him. Eauvraut flinches. No, now is not the time to think about any of that. He has to do as the stranger says or he will _die_. He reaches out to the radio and tunes it to the right frequency with shaking hands. When the operator on the other end prompted him, he stutters, “This is—this is Castellum, Castellum Rustrock. I have a message...“

“A message? What do you mean?“

“There's someone here who wants to talk to the legatus...“ Eauvraut looks up at the stranger. What does he want him to _say?_

“This is highly irregular. I can't just put you through to the legatus.“

Mercifully, the stranger chose this moment to speak up. “I am Zenos yae Galvus. Put me through.“

The crown prince? _The crown prince?_ Eauvraut's mouth falls open. How is this possible? He's heard rumours, yes, the kind of nonsense that bored soldiers come up with for the fun of it, but—

“What is the meaning of this, Zenos?“ The voice coming from the radio is familiar, even though Eauvraut has only heard it once before. The legatus actually answered. Eauvraut will kiss the man's feet if he gets out of here alive. 

“You already know,“ the crown prince answers, “unless I have grossly overestimated your mental faculties. Cease your foolishness, or pay the price. I will leave the insignificant speck that called you alive, that you may question him on what happened here today. Know that if I must take you down to make you stop, I won't hesitate to do so.“

He will… leave him alive?

He will live. He will survive this.

Tears well up in his eyes. Van Baelsar is saying something, but between his heart racing in his chest and the sheer, utter relief of knowing he won't meet his end on that awful, terrible bloodstained blade, he doesn't listen. What does it matter what old Baelsar has to say? He will live! And he doesn't care about what the higher ups are up to anyroad!

Then the resistance in their horrible yellow uniforms file into the courtyard. Oh no. Oh no, no, no… 

One of them stepped forward. “What is the meaning of this? You said...“

“I know what I said.“ The crown prince doesn't turn around to them as he crushes the backup radio under his boot. “This was personal, though you will benefit from it nonetheless. Leave this one alive in turn. I need him to convey something for me.“ 

“That's...“ The resistance leader sighs and shrugs. “Fine. Have it your way, then. We'll leave him here.“

Without a further word, the crown prince strolls towards the castellum gates in the same leisurely pace he used while slaughtering everyone. Their blood still stains his clothes. Eauvraut wants to throw up. This is the royalty they serve? This... monster acting so nonchalantly after wanton murder?

“So,“ one of the resistance fighters says after the prince has left, “what's to stop us from just killing that imperial dog now?“

“The fact that he'd probably come back and kill _us_ if we do, moron.“ It's hard to read their faces with the hoods covering so much of them, but Eauvraut can hear the annoyance in the leader's voice. “You were _there_ when we offered him that deal. Have you already forgotten what it was like? This is a small price to pay. Let's focus on looting the place so we can get out of here before reinforcements arrive.“

“If you say so...“ 

They give Eauvraut a wide berth as they head inside the barracks. He doesn't have the slightest idea as to what's going on—the crown prince joined the rebels after they offered him a deal, and now works against the legatus? Against the empire itself? What? How would something like that even happen?

But that's none of his concern. He'll simply wait until the rebels left and then contact the royal palace for his report. They will send someone to rescue him from this forsaken place and then shuffle him somewhere else in Gyr Abania. He doesn't even care. As long as it's not anywhere near the crown prince, it'll be fine. 

He doesn't want to see that man ever again. 

“Are you telling me,“ Conrad says very slowly, “that the _great-grandson of His Imperial Bastardness_ joined forces with us?“

“Not… exactly?“ J'olhmyn shrugs. She's not surprised at Conrad's incredulous tone. What an absurd story. It's the kind of story tired resistance fighters come up with to make themselves feel better; a saviour unexpectedly swooping in to save them, but none of them would ever have picked this particular person. “I don't understand it any more than you do. All I know is he wiped out that Castellum like it was nothing, and left us alone when we came to investigate. I don't think he's on our side per se. We just seem to have a common enemy.“

Conrad pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is a complication. I don't like complications.“

Who does, among the resistance? Complications usually mean death, and there are few enough of them as it is. Ar the same time, what's the use in complaining when they occur? “If we play our hand right,“ J'olhmyn says, “we can benefit from this. If we can keep him pointed at the imperials...“ 

“We don't have much of a choice. There isn't much we can do to make him leave. Unless you have an idea? No? Too bad.“ Conrad rises from his seat and circles the map table. “Castellum Rustrock is here, and you initially encountered him near Baelsar's Wall. Have you noticed anything else that could be attributed to him?“

“No, nothing.“ 

“A loose cannon we won't be able to communicate with reliably, then.“

That was a grim yet fair assessment. “For what it's worth, I believe he will leave us alone if we stay out of his hair. It doesn't seem like he cares about us one way or the other.“

“Let's hope so, J'olhmyn. Let's hope so.“ 

“Are you telling me,“ Varis says over the radio, “that my son has joined forces with the _Ala Mhigan rebels?_ “

“By all accounts yes,“ Gaius replies. “That is exactly what it looks like.“ He can't begrudge Varis the incredulous tone. It's beyond difficult to believe. He expected Zenos to move against him; his friend's son made it very clear that he has no desire to return, and would not react kindly to any attempts to bring him back into the fold. But to be on speaking terms, even _friendly_ with the resistance? It beggars belief.

“You must be mistaken. He wouldn't...“

“But he has.“ Gaius leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Not that Varis can see the gesture, of course. “He cut down an entire Castellum's worth of soldiers, called me through their backup radio and told me to leave him be. The sole survivor, who was left alive only to relay this to me, informed me that the resistance arrived shortly after Zenos and had a conversation with him that qualifies as downright pleasant by his standards. The survivor also reported that they had dealings of an unknown nature. The resistance then proceeded to leave the survivor alone on Zenos' request. What other conclusion could I have drawn?“

Varis' growling exhale is loud enough to be heard over the radio, but he doesn't answer.

“He is but one man, we will deal with him… is what I would love to say, but you and I both know it isn't that simple,“ Gaius says. “I _will_ find a way to solve this, of course, but be aware that I may have to decide between bringing him back and furthering Garlemald's interests in Eorzea.“

“What are you implying?“

“That I can and will prioritise my duty as a legatus over your son, provided I am not given orders to the contrary by Your Radiance.“

Silence. Gaius settles down and waits. Varis will respond in time. He's always been contradictory over his son; spoke of him with callousness, but balked at the idea of him getting hurt, while still putting him in danger's path. Gaius isn't privy to the finer details of their relationship, but at time he caught himself thinking that it's a good thing he isn't Varis' son, or Zenos' father for that matter.

“Do what you must,“ Varis says at last. “But if the opportunity presents itself… bring him back.“

Gaius wants to ask why. He really does. It's not difficult to see that Varis holds little love for his son. Whenever they speak of him, he has nothing positive to say about Zenos. Once, he has gone so far as to say that he wishes Zenos had never been born—although he retracted the statement immediately after. But perhaps that is simply the result of being a father. Gaius wouldn't know. He's never been one.

“Understood,“ he replies instead. “I will do what I can.“

“...Thank you.“

Gaius rises after the call ends. 

He does have an idea or two for how to deal with the prodigal son. 

Zenos beheads the final imperial and sighs. This is so _boring_ , now that he's found the secret to making proper use of the crystals moreso than ever. It lies in using multiple crystals on several body parts, apparently. Why that works, he doesn't know. Maybe his former self did, or maybe not, but it doesn't matter. The only important thing is that he no longer falls ill after using them. 

Van Baelsar clearly didn't send this troop out to actually catch him; they were far too few and too weak for that. No, more likely they were outfitted with trackers, and intended to locate rather than capture him. Sacrificial lambs. Did van Baelsar tell them their purpose here was to die?

It isn't the first time van Baelsar sent trackers after him. Why the legatus wants to track his movements he cannot say; perhaps he has a secret weapon or another he wants to employ against him, though surely he would have already done so if he is in possession of such a thing. It would be welcome either way, as it would be a change from the other trash he's faced since coming to Gyr Abania.

Thanks to his relations against van Baelsar's pursuit, the resistance is steadily making progress, which isn't at all what he intended nor does he care, but it is what it is. They aren't quite in control of the Fringes yet, as Baelsar's Wall still stands and he hasn't bothered with Castellum Velodyna, but perhaps he will change that soon.

The Alliance spilling into Gyr Abania is wont to force van Baelsar to act, after all. 

For the time being, however, he'll focus on finding a place to sleep. There's an abandoned village nearby that he perused for that purpose before. It's in a state of disrepair, but it keeps out the elements just fine, something that sounds very appealing right now. The merciless Ala Mhigan sun threatens to sear its way through his skull. Already his temples throb, signalling an oncoming headache. Shade, water and food, in that order. 

He turns around, wipes the sweat off his face and sets off. It will take an hour of walking, give or take a few. Tolerable, if barely so. Thankfully, the trackers he killed carried food and water. He won't have to raid an outpost's stores for a while now. 

“Zenos yae Galvus...“

Darkness bloomed in front of him, a swirl of blackness from which a hooded and masked man emerges. His dark gown covers all but the lower part of his face and his hands, which are encased in claw-like gauntlets. The deep gouges they would leave, were he to claw at anything… intriguing. Mayhap he will look into obtaining something like that.

“I have been looking for you ever since I got word you had entered this realm,“ the man says. His voices gives no clue about his identity—then again, even if it did, Zenos would hardly recognise it. “I must needs have words with you.“

“Then you have not been very thorough. I made no secret of my presence here. Even van Baelsar's incompetent underlings found me faster than you did.“ 

The hooded stranger does not acknowledge his words. Instead, he says, “Much and more have you forgotten, but you may yet rediscover your true purpose on this star. I will guide you in this.“

“I'm not interested.“ Zenos resumes walking, but the stranger shifts to block his path without moving in any way Zenos can detect. 

“You would do well to hear me out. I know the truth of your origins, of your family… of your great-grandfather.“ The stranger holds out a clawed hand. Zenos takes the opportunity to scrutinise it in more detail, to memorise how it is constructed. Later, he will search for someone who can reproduce it. “Without my guidance, you will never reach the peak of what you can do.“

“What makes you think I care?“ Zenos asks.

“I know that you seek to unlock even greater strength, and I hold in my hand the key to doing so. You were born for a specific purpose. It is the reason you stand here today.“

“No, I was not.“

A moment of silence, then: “You dare talk back to me like that? I was there when you were created, _boy_.“

“Really?“ Zenos raises an eyebrow. “Does my father know you were spying on him at the time?“

“You insolent _fool_ ,“ the stranger grouses. “Know you who you are speaking to with such disrespect? From before your birth, you were molded into what you are today to better serve our ends, and I will see to it that you do serve them!“

This stranger sounds like he would get along well with Zenos' father. They have the same pompous, controlling attitude. And what is it with the idea that Zenos' goal is to become stronger at all costs? Why would he care about that? He's already stronger than anyone else. What was his old self up to that this stranger is under such misconceptions about him?

Not that he really knows what his own goal is. He has yet to figure out what it is he's looking for, but it's not growing stronger. If it were that, he could have simply stayed in Garlemald. 

“You are quite mistaken about me. I do not care what I was supposedly meant for, or what goals I had prior to my amnesia. Here and now, I will do what I want, and naught else.“ Zenos draws his gunblade. If this creature wishes to force him to do his bidding, then he will get his just reward for it. 

“So you choose to run from your destiny. Pah. No man can deny his fate.“ The same dark bloom that the bloom the stranger came from flickers into being around him once more. “When the time comes, I will seek you out again, and then you _will_ serve, whether you like it or not.“ With that, he vanishes, leaving the riverbed empty again.

Well, that was certainly a strange event Zenos hasn't expected. If the stranger is to be believed, which is doubtful, he is a science experiment of sorts. For a moment, Zenos stayed where he was, sword in hand, as he considered it… but really, did it matter? Would it really be any worse than being born a crown prince, life predetermined and controlled by others?

He will just ignore this like he is ignoring his birthright. If he didn't care what his own father thinks about his choices, there is no reason to care what a mysterious and presumptuous stranger thinks of them. Especially not one who chooses to flee rather than face him. Such cowardice.

The desert wind has grown stronger during their chat, and his throat feels more parched than ever. He takes a swig from his flask and finally heads for the village.

Shade, water and food first.

Then working towards toppling van Baelsar from his throne.

And then, once he's left to do as he pleases… maybe set out to find a place he can find fullfilment in.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying there will be a sequel to the sequel.
> 
> I'm not saying there won't be one either, though.
> 
> (To quell potential confusion: The stuff Lahabrea refers to at the end is a matter of headcanon and not official in any way.)
> 
> Comments appreciated!


End file.
